


Take The Keys To My Heart (And Just Drive)

by torakowalski



Series: Tim Gutterson Deserves a Nice Boyfriend [1]
Category: Justified
Genre: Case Fic, First Kiss, M/M, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21890611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: Raylan’s friend Bobby is tall and slim-hipped, with dark curling hair and eyes the colour of the ocean. This is a problem. Even more of a problem is the way he smiles at Tim like Tim is a brand new secret.In which Tim may or may not regret doing Raylan a favour.
Relationships: Tim Gutterson/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Tim Gutterson Deserves a Nice Boyfriend [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1588339
Comments: 24
Kudos: 166
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Take The Keys To My Heart (And Just Drive)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cjmarlowe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjmarlowe/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, cjmarlowe! Thank you so much for giving me an excuse to write more about Tim Gutterson, which I've been wanting to do for years and years. I really hope you enjoy it.

“Howdy,” says Raylan, pressing both hands down onto Tim’s desk and leaning forward to raise a winsome eyebrow his way.

“Raylan.” Tim rocks back in his seat, because he is not given to trusting Raylan’s eyebrows, winsome or otherwise. “What can I do for you?”

Raylan smiles. “I am looking for just the smallest of favours.” 

“No,” says Tim preemptively. “No, I won’t be going to Harlan and no I won’t be talking to Boyd.”

“I’m wounded,” says Raylan, not looking it. “When have I ever asked you to do either of those things… lately?”

Tim isn’t going to smile. He truly isn’t. Raylan isn’t as charming as he thinks he is and, if Tim keeps telling himself that, one day he’ll believe it.

Instead, he just waits.

“I need someone to sleep over with a friend of mine for a couple nights, that’s all.” Which, admittedly, is not what Tim was expecting him to say. “I’d do it myself but I got Willa for the week.”

“Is the friend Boyd?” Tim asks. “And or someone you’ve slept with?”

“God no.” Raylan laughs. “A kid I know from back home runs __Nathanial’s__ , that bar on Rose Street? You probably don’t know it. They’ve been having a little trouble.”

“ _Nathanial’s_?” Tim has to fight to keep from sounding panicked. He definitely knows _Nathanial’s_. It’s not a gay bar, but it’s a bar where a man can go if he’s looking to meet another man and know he won’t get a black eye for his trouble. “What kind of trouble?”

Raylan shrugs a shoulder. “Broken windows, shit spray painted on the door. Nothing too bad, but I’ve known Bobby since he was twelve years old and I’d feel better if there was someone looking out for him.”

Tim’s evening plans are always the same: go home, nuke a dinner, put on some reality TV show he doesn’t have to concentrate on, drink until he can sleep. Shaking it up a little might not be the worst idea in the world.

“Sure,” he says easily. “Long as I can bring my book and no one asks me to mix a drink.”

“Deal.” Raylan grins at him, relaxed as ever, but Tim can see real relief in his eyes. Whoever this guy is, he must be something special, if Raylan cares about him.

***

Raylan’s friend Bobby is tall and slim-hipped, with dark curling hair and eyes the colour of the ocean. This is a problem. Even more of a problem is the way he smiles at Tim like Tim is a brand new secret.

“Raylan is such an asshole,” he says, by way of hello. He steps back from the little side door around the back of the bar, waving Tim inside. “I told him I was fine, and what does he do? Sends me my very own bodyguard. Do I look like Whitney to you?”

“Well, shit, no one told me to bring my tux,” says Tim automatically, then could genuinely kick himself. Flirting with anyone is a terrible idea; flirting with a guy who knows Raylan is the worst idea of all.

Bobby grins at him, throws Tim a wink over his shoulder. “Coming up, Deputy?”

Tim follows him up a steep flight of stairs to the first floor apartment. 

“Just dump your stuff in the corner,” Bobby says, waving at a dusty little nook by the TV. “Wait, you don’t have stuff?”

“I travel light,” says Tim with a shrug. He has a toothbrush and some clean underwear, but he doesn’t want to talk to Bobby about that.

They stand facing each other in the living room, and it’s not the most awkward Tim has ever felt, but it’s still pretty awkward.

“So,” he says.

“Sorry,” says Bobby at the exact same time.

Tim nods at him. “You go.”

Bobby pushes his hands into the back pockets of his tight black jeans. “Sorry I don’t have a guest room for y’all,” he says. “My mama would be horrified at me.”

“S’okay, I ain’t a guest,” Tim says. “Raylan says you’ve been having trouble? Any reason to think it’s gonna escalate?”

“Nah,” says Bobby, shrugging. “You know Raylan, he worries.”

“Not often, least not about himself,” says Tim.

Bobby grins at that, nodding fervently. “Never about himself,” he agrees. “You want a drink? I got coffee or iced tea up here, a whole bar worth of liquor downstairs.”

Tim would like a beer. Hell he’d like a beer with a whiskey chaser and then some more whiskey, but he doesn’t drink when he’s working. “Coffee’d be good.”

Bobby nods, leaves him alone while he disappears around a corner into what must be the kitchen. While he’s gone, Tim looks around. 

From Tim’s infrequent visits, he knows the bar downstairs is warm and rustic, like an olden times saloon found itself remodeled by hipsters. This apartment is similar in that it’s comfortable and clearly well loved, but it also feels more like a home, with thick carpets gone threadbare at the corners and two big, grey sofas. 

There’s a photograph on the wall of Bobby, much younger with shorter hair, his arm around a sandy-haired boy and his lips pressed to the boy’s cheek. There’s no sign of someone else living here now, though and only one of the sofa cushions is dented, like Bobby spends a lot of time sitting alone.

“That’s Nate,” Bobby says, appearing behind him unexpectedly. Tim should not be letting people get the jump on him; he must be losing his edge.

“Nate?” Tim asked. “Nathanial? Like the bar?” He takes the coffee Bobby hands to him and settles himself on the sofa opposite the one with the dented cushion. 

Bobby takes the dent. “Just like,” he agrees. He has an ice tea for himself and he sips on it slowly. “He died. I named a bar after him. It was a long time ago.”

Tim just nods and doesn’t argue. Bobby is Tim’s age, maybe younger; it can’t have been that long ago. 

Instead, he does what he does best and changes the subject. “Listen, if you’ve got shit you need to do, you don’t gotta babysit me. I can entertain myself until you open up, then I’ll come on down and keep an eye on things.”

“Need me to show you around the back?” Bobby asks. “I reckon you know the layout of the bar itself well enough, don’t you?”

Tim freezes, coffee half way to his mouth. “Why d’you reckon that?”

Bobby gives him a look that’s blankly polite, totally innocent and not at all like he knows Tim sometimes finds a friendly dick to lick in his rest rooms. “Thought I’d seen you getting a beer a time or two. Maybe I’m wrong.”

Tim forces himself to smile, behave like a person who’s done nothing wrong. Because he has done nothing wrong. He knows that. It’s just kinda hard to remember sometimes. “You’re not wrong,” he says. “Just surprised you noticed me.”

The right corner of Bobby’s mouth ticks up. “Sugar, who wouldn’t?”

Tim has no fucking clue how to answer that, so he doesn’t try. He drinks his coffee, puts down his mug, and accepts Bobby’s offer of a tour. By the time Bobby opens up the bar, Tim knows the layout of the whole building and he’s pretty sure no one can get the drop on Bobby without Tim spotting them first.

He orders a beer, just to fit in, tucks himself into the corner, and watches people come and go. It’s odd, just sitting here, reminding himself that he’s here for work, nothing else. It’s not that he looks to hook up all that often, but when he does get the urge, _Nathanial’s_ is where he comes. 

It’s safe here. 

He’s never known many queer spaces and the ones he’s tried have never felt like his kind of place - too modern, too chic, trying too hard, like he needs to leave parts of himself at the door in order for other parts of himself to be welcome. Here, he’s always felt like he can be Tim Gutterson: deputy marshal, veteran, a little screwed-up, a little crazy, and gay, all in the same package and at the same time.

“Having fun, Deputy?” Bobby asks, doing one of what is apparently going to become his regular checks in with Tim. He doesn’t work the bar too often, more focused on cruising around the room, checking that everyone’s having a good time. It makes Tim’s job harder, which makes it more interesting.

“Having a whale of a time,” Tim agrees, lifting his glass to him. “Think I made a friend.” He flicks his eyes to guy at the other side of the bar, who’s been eyeing Tim on and off all night. He’s older than Tim goes for usually, but he’s got a kind face, and if Tim weren’t working, he might be interested. 

Not that Tim is meant to be looking for kind faces. He’s meant to be looking for eager dicks, and he knows that; the problem is that some lizard brain part of him is always looking for a home.

“That’s Danny,” says Bobby. “He’s a sweetheart. Want me to tell him you ain’t interested?”

It’s on the tip of Tim’s tongue to tell him that he can look after himself, but instead he nods, says, “Thanks.” He knows he’s being stupid, that Bobby wouldn’t see him say no to Danny and somehow guess that he’d usually say yes, but it’s easy to take the out. So that’s what he does.

He hates himself just a little more than normal, as he slowly drains his beer and wishes he could have another.

Nothing happens in the bar that night. They’re closed by midnight, Bobby’s staff gone home and Bobby just finishing counting the takings.

“Where d’you keep that?” Tim asks, watching him neatly stacking bills on the bartop.

“Safe over there.” Bobby nods to the little galley space between the staff room and the kitchen that’s out of sight of the customers. “I don’t reckon I’m being hounded for my profits though, do you?”

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Tim admits. “It’s probably just assholes being assholes. Not likely they’ll escalate, but I can sleep down here, if you’d rather I kept an eye on the safe too?”

“Fuck no, don’t be stupid.” Bobby bends down to unlock his safe, while Tim looks everywhere but at his ass, then locks his money away. “I mean, that’s sweet of you and thank you, but it’s bad enough you’ve gotta sleep on my sofa. I ain’t making you sleep down _here_. It’s cold as shit and all the furniture’s rock hard.”

“I don’t mind things hard,” Tim says then could honestly cut out his own tongue. What is _wrong_ with him?

There’s a second where he thinks Bobby is going to flirt right back with him, then Bobby gets this puzzled little frown between his eyes, shakes his head slightly and seems to shrug it off.

“Your choice,” he says, “but I know I’d feel better, if you were in the apartment, with me.”

Tim doesn’t trust himself to speak any longer, so he just nods and follows Bobby up to the apartment. It’s late for Tim to be upright, though not late for him to be awake, so he still doesn’t say anything, when Bobby wishes him a quick good night and leaves him alone in the sitting room.

He waits to make sure Bobby isn’t coming back then takes off his shoes and his jeans, lays his holster under the pillow Bobby set up on the sofa for him and lays down on his back.

He’s not expecting to sleep much, but he can’t start reading else he gets absorbed and misses some sound outside, so he just stares up at the ceiling and tries not to think about anything in particular.

***

Half way toward morning, Tim’s shaken out of a doze by a vague sense of something being wrong. He keeps his eyes closed because he’s found that helps him to listen clearer, but he can’t tell what woke him.

Kicking back the comforter he’s been lying under, he pulls on his jeans, picks up his sidearm and pads barefoot out into the hallway.

Still nothing.

He’s half way down the stairs toward the bar before he realises what’s wrong, and he curses out loud.

“Bobby!” he yells. “Fire!” And races down the rest of the stairs.

There’s no one in the bar, which is a shame, since Tim is feeling an itch to shoot someone, but one of the windows is smashed and the heavy blue curtains hanging nearest are on fire. 

The flames are just starting to lick across the wood floor as well, two of the floorboards and the legs of one table starting to smolder.

“Fuck,” Bobby whispers, appearing behind Tim. “Oh my god.”

“Wet down some towels and drop them over the floor and that table,” Tim tells him. 

Bobby doesn’t move, just stares at the fire.

“Hurry!” snaps Tim. 

Bobby runs in the bar kitchen, hopefully to do as he’s told, leaving Tim to deal with the curtains. They’re blazing good, but only from floor level to about half way up. Tim can grab the nearest chair and lean over the flames, tug the whole mess of curtains down from their rail and drop them to the floor.

The weight of the rest of the curtain landing on it puts out most of the fire. Tim jumps down and stamps out the rest.

By the time he’s done, Bobby has dealt with the other potential problems.

The stand in the middle of the smoke-scented bar and just stare at each other for a moment. Bobby is flushed across the cheeks but pale everywhere else, wearing nothing but a pair of red plaid boxers and a University of Kentucky sweatshirt.

It’s cold in the bar, the smashed window letting in the night time air. Tim shivers, but he’s not too badly off, since he’s mostly dressed. Almost as if his body is copying Tim’s, Bobby shivers as well, and then he starts to shake.

“Fuck,” he says, groping for a chair and dropping down into it. “ _Fuck_. Someone tried to set us on fire.”

Tim walks around the charred remains of the curtain, looking for the ignition source. It takes a minute to find it, since he doesn’t want to upset the crime scene, but then he spots the tail end of a twisted up piece of rag. Someone must have lit it on fire then thrown it inside after smashing the window.

Which is Tim’s view, makes them a total fucking bastards.

“I’ll call the cops,” he says, stepping away from Bobby and the quiet breakdown he seems to be having.

“I thought you were the cops?” Bobby asks, eyes still shocky and vague.

“Not the right kind,” is all Tim says, since he likes the marshall service well enough, but not enough to really care if people don’t understand what they do for a living.

Local law enforcement arrives and then local law enforcement leaves. In between times, they try to quiz Tim and Bobby on anything that they might have seen or heard, but since they were both asleep, that turns out to be nothing much. 

The older of the two cops clearly doesn’t believe that Tim was sleeping on the sofa, which leaves an odd, itchy feeling under Tim’s skin. In other circumstances he might be flattered to be linked to someone as hot as Bobby, but this cop is too near his father’s age and height and build for it to make Tim feel anything but exposed.

Once they’re gone, Bobby leans back against the nearest wall as if it’s all that’s holding him upright. He’d perked right up while the cops were here, pretending to be just fine, but apparently Tim gets to see past the act. 

“I’m real sorry,” Bobby says, hugging himself. He’d fetched some sweatpants before the cops arrived, but he doesn’t look any warmer than he did before. “Like, truly so sorry.”

Tim frowns. “What for?”

“You could have been _burned to death_!” Bobby’s voice goes up at the end, clearly startling himself as much as he startles Tim. “Fuck. Sorry. But you really could have, just because Raylan asked you to keep an eye on me.” He scrubs at his face. “Oh god, thank you for knowing something was wrong. I never would have, I sleep like the de- I mean, I sleep real deep.”

Tim tends to react to someone having a lot of emotion by having the minimum possible himself. He knows that’s not helpful, but it’s just the way he is.

“It’s no big deal,” he says, shrugging. “Literally what I was here for.”

Bobby nods miserably, and Tim wishes he was better at this, that he knew what to say to be comforting, or how to crack a joke to make Bobby feel better. Not that Tim _can’t_ think of a few jokes to crack, but he’s always too deadpan or his jokes are too dark to be much help here.

“You should go back to sleep,” he says instead. “Couple of hours yet ‘til morning; you could get some decent sleep.”

“ _How_?” Bobby asks. “My heart’s thumping so hard I reckon it’s gonna burst right on out of my chest.” He looks at Tim from under his dark eyelashes. “In other circumstances, I’d ask if you wanna feel.”

In other circumstances, Tim might have taken him up on that offer. Today, tonight, he acts as though he didn’t hear it, and shoos Bobby off to bed. 

The local cops said they’d circle their patrol around the bar for the rest of the night, but that’s not good enough to let Tim go back to bed. His heart’s thumping too, probably just as hard as Bobby’s, but Bobby probably doesn’t have the hyper-awareness anxiety thing that Tim has. 

So instead, Tim finds some empty cardboard boxes down in the beer cellar and tapes the broken window shut. Then he pulls out a chair, puts his sidearm on his lap, and sits down to wait for morning.

***

Tim’s tired at work, but that’s not unusual; his mom used to say he was born tired. His army mandated shrink had another name for it, one that came with pleas to return for more sessions and a ‘script for antidepressants.

Tim never goes back for more therapy, but he does take the meds. Most of the time, anyway. Some days, he wakes up and his hands already feel filthy with blood that’ll never wash off and he can’t convince himself that he deserves to feel like anything but hell.

Raylan says thank you to him, like he’s a real person, and he also remembers it’s his turn to do the coffee run, so it’s a day of miracles all around.

After work, Tim drives home, grabs a change of clothes and his phone charger, throws out some meat for the stray dog who roams his yard sometimes, and drives back to _Nathanial’s_.

Bobby is upstairs in his apartment, cooking when Tim arrives. He’s humming along to the radio, moving his hips from side to side in time to the beat, and he doesn’t look at all like the same man who was firebombed and terrified in the middle of last night.

His smile lights up his face when Tim lets himself in. There might be a touch of relief in it, but Tim doesn’t know him well enough to know that for certain.

“Hey,” Tim says. “Cooking?”

“Cooking,” Bobby agrees, like he doesn’t mind Tim stating the obvious. It’s not Tim’s fault; Bobby’s little dance moves are distracting. “Did you have a good day?”

Tim pours himself a glass of water, then leans against the sink to drink it. “Yeah, it was okay. Paperwork mostly.”

Bobby throws him a frown over one shoulder. “They make you do paperwork in your downtime?”

“No? Well, yeah, if it’s not finished, but it wasn’t downtime, I was working today.”

For some reason, that makes Bobby turn all the way around, as if he doesn’t notice the pan starting to spit oil at his elbow. “You can’t work nights and days; I’m pretty sure there’s a law against that.”

Tim is confused. To be fair, Bobby clearly is too. “Sure, if I’m working days and nights, but I’m not technically working here; this is my downtime.”

“Wait what?”

“What?”

They blink at each other. “This isn’t part of your job?” Bobby asks.

Tim shakes his head. “No… We don’t do this. This is local LEO stuff, not work for the Marshal's office.”

“But…”

Tim puts his glass down, decides to cut through everyone’s confusion. “This is just a favour for Raylan. Which is cool, but it don’t count as work.”

“Oh my god!” Bobby says, waving one hand through the air in a quick, cutting motion. “Why the fuck didn’t you say? You can’t do this and not get paid. Go away, go home, I’ll be fine. Shit, I’m going to kill Raylan.”

Tim finds himself laughing. “Dude. Dude calm down, it’s fine.”

Bobby looks at him helplessly. “ _Why_?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do?” Tim says, then makes a face at himself because shit, what a stupid thing to say.

For some reason, it makes Bobby smile at him, this bright, affectionate smile that honest-to-god makes Tim think of sunshine. “Well, aren’t you a darlin’,” he drawls.

Tim wants to squirm and mumble, _no_ , but that feels even more embarrassing than just ignoring Bobby. So he ignores Bobby and his fucking smile.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” he says instead, pointing toward the sitting room.

“No, no!” Bobby reaches out and catches his sleeve, all casual touches that Tim doesn’t know what to do with. “Stay and keep me company. If you help me cook, I’ll feed you.”

“I… don’t know how to cook,” Tim says, panicked.

“Oh well in that case, fuck off,” Bobby says, deadpan as anything, and pulls him over to the counter. He puts a wicked looking knife into Tim’s hand and points him at a plate of vegetables. “Reckon you can chop?”

Tim is only half certain that he can, actually, but he grips the knife and nods.

Bobby laughs at him. “Try not to look like you’re heading into a knife fight,” he says. He pushes his sleeves up his arms, where they’d started to slide down, and steps up close against Tim’s side. “Here.” He wraps his fingers around Tim’s wrist and shows him how to tilt the knife just so.

It’s all Tim can do not to close his eyes at the pain of it. Body heat and a living, breathing man this close to him, touching his wrist, just make him want to turn and bury himself in Bobby’s arms. It’s not even that Bobby is hot - though Bobby _is_ hot - it’s just that it’s been so fucking long since Tim was really touched.

“What do you like to eat?” Bobby asks conversationally, while Tim methodically chops peppers and Bobby stirs three different pans at once.

“Anything,” Tim says, shrugging. “Food.”

“Oh come on,” laughs Bobby. “Everyone’s got one thing they really like to eat. Do you like meat, fish, fruit, veg, pie?”

“Pie, I guess,” Tim admits. “I like sweet stuff.” Growing up, chocolates and candies were for women. In his father’s world, real men ate meat and drank beer and died of a heart attack aged forty-seven.

Bobby beams at him like he’s been given the best secret. “I will bake you a pie, as a thank you. I mean, I ain’t much of a baker, but I’ve always wanted to learn. You mind being my test subject?”

Tim shakes his head, shrugging helplessly. He looks back down at the vegetables which he’s basically chopped into crumbs. “Uh, this okay?”

It very clearly isn’t, but Bobby just says, “That’s perfect,” and sweeps the plate away, tipping all Tim’s hard work into a pan, where it sizzles and starts to smell real good.

Now Tim probably would get away with running off to the quiet of the sitting room, but for some reason, he doesn’t feel like it anymore. He finds himself just hanging out in the kitchen, listening to Bobby chat and giving him the occasional, “Mmhms,” when he thinks he should.

It’s not that Tim’s not listening - Tim is definitely listening - it’s just that letting Bobby talk is way more relaxing than it should be, and way more relaxing than trying to talk himself would.

They eat dinner together, plates on their laps while they share a sofa, then Bobby goes down stairs to get started on the bar and Tim lies down for a half-hour nap.

***

Things are quiet that night and they’re quiet the night after. Tim gets a solid eight hours every night and a home cooked meal every evening, and starts thinking about things like how maybe this is how his life should be.

Except if things stay this quiet, he won’t be able to justify sleeping on Bobby’s sofa and eating Bobby’s food much longer.

Things don’t stay quiet.

It’s a Friday night and the bar is full to bursting.

The little stage in the corner is hosting a honky-tonk band, who pull Bobby up to sing a couple songs with them. He’s surprisingly good, which Tim doesn’t need to know. He’s always liked a man who can sing.

Two guys and one girl try to dance with Tim, but he brushes them off as gentle as he can and sticks to the sidelines, trying to keep an eye on everything at once.

This shit is easier when he’s up high, just him and his rifle, but there’s no sniper’s nest that he can take over in a one-storey bar in the middle of downtown Lexington.

It’s more of a sixth sense that Tim has picked up over the years than anything concrete that alerts him to the fact that there’s trouble brewing, so he’s already swinging around, scanning the bar, before he hears the crash of something glass falling to the floor.

He finds Bobby before he can more than blink. He’s backing away fast from a man who’s standing just inside the door. There’s glass on the floor between them and several people are starting to look their way.

Tim makes it over there in a heartbeat.

“Bobby?” he asks, putting himself smoothly between Bobby and whoever this is. He’s a guy, a little older than Tim, wearing a leather jacket and a band t-shirt. He has closely cropped blond hair, some hella ugly tattoos that look rough enough to have been done in prison, and an expression that’s as alarmed as Bobby is.

“Get him out of here?” Bobby asks, voice faint. “Make him leave.”

“Sir,” Tim says, stepping forward. “You heard him; I’m afraid it’s time to go.”

“This is your place?” the guy asks, speaking over Tim’s shoulder as though Tim isn’t there. “I swear to god, I did not know that.”

“Tim. Please.” There’s no flirt and no tease in Bobby’s voice, just absolute panic. 

“Did he threaten you?” Tim asks, without looking away from the guy. “What’s going on?”

The guy holds up both hands. “Hey, man, honest mistake. I’m meant to be meeting a girl in here, that’s all. I swear I didn’t know it was his place, so there’s no need to tell no one. Right?”

They’re drawing a crowd. It occurs to Tim that enough of Bobby’s customers would probably step in to protect him that he doesn’t really need a bodyguard while the bar’s open. Tim’s still glad he’s here, though.

He ejects the still protesting man in five easy steps then hurries back into the bar, just in time to see the back of Bobby’s shirt disappearing into the private area and out of sight.

“Bobby?” Tim calls, pushing his way through the people who are still circling about. Bobby doesn’t stop, but he does leave the dividing door unlocked long enough for Tim to follow him through, before he slams the bolt home and sinks back against the door.

He’s shaking and ghostly pale. Tim thinks for a second that he’s going to fall and reaches out automatically.

Bobby doesn’t react when Tim curls a hand around his shoulder, which isn’t helpful, since Tim would kind of like a clue as to whether that’s welcome or not. Or hell, any clue as to what’s going on and what he’s meant to do about it.

“Did he go?” Bobby asks, blinking twice, before lifting a horribly blank gaze to Tim’s face.

“Yeah,” Tim promises. “Yeah, he’s gone. Who is he? What did he do to you?”

Bobby shakes his head jerkily. “He’s Jason Major. He didn’t do nothing, not really, not tonight. Like he said, he just came inside. I saw him and I dropped… shit, I dropped glass all over the floor, I need to get that cleaned up and - ”

“Other people work the bar,” Tim interrupts. “They’ll be dealing with that, don’t worry. How about we get you sitting down? Maybe some sweet tea in you? You look like you’ve had a shock.”

Bobby laughs shakily, pressing his hands to his mouth. He looks fragile like this, smaller and more vulnerable than he usually does without the force of his big personality to hide behind.

“I’m gonna. I’m gonna go upstairs and… I’m gonna go,” he says and fleas.

Tim follows him up the stairs, but finds the door the apartment firmly closed before he can get there. He heads back down, pushes his way through the crowd in the bar and out onto the street. There’s no sign of the guy who freaked out Bobby.

Back inside, Tim catches eyes with Kayla, one of the girls who works behind the bar.

She raises her eyebrows at him.

He shrugs.

Kayla shrugs back.

At a loss, Tim heads back outside and does the one thing he tries never to do. He calls Raylan for help.

***

“Jason Major?” Raylan asks, sitting on Bobby’s lumpy sofa a while later. “You sure?”

“That’s what the man said,” Tim says. He’s trying to look relaxed, leaning with his back against the wall with clear sight lines all across the room, but Bobby’s locked himself away in his bedroom, and Tim can’t think about much that isn’t worrying about that.

“Fuck shit, what an idiot.” Raylan isn’t wearing his hat, and he looks kind of naked without it. He scrubs a hand through his hair, looks up at Tim with a rueful shake of his head. “Bobby told you about Nate?”

Tim glances the picture on the wall: two happy boys, so clearly in love. “Not much. Only that he died.”

Raylan chews on his bottom lip. “Yeah. Nate was a good kid, but his cousin got caught dealing oxy. There was this big family argument, Nate and Bobby went to try to clear the air.”

He lets it hang, which isn’t great for Tim’s anxiety. He doesn’t want to hear what happened to the smiling kid in the photograph, but if he has to know, he needs to know now.

“The Majors are bit players in the Harlem oxy scene, but somehow Nate’s cousin owed ‘em thousands. They came around to collect, and when he couldn’t pay, they set fire to his motorhome. They say they didn’t know no one was in there; pretty sure they actually didn’t know Nate and Bobby were. They got out, but Nate went back in for his cousin and then the whole fucking thing exploded.”

Tim feels sick. Tim doesn’t usually feel much of anything, and he’d rather he didn’t start with this awful sorrow for a kid he’s never met.

“Jason Major is who in this story?” he asks.

“Get away driver. He reckons he never knew there was gonna be a fire and the prosecution couldn’t stick it to him. He’s been on parole a year or so, but last I heard he’d moved to Arkansas. He’s a damn idiot for coming back here and for walking straight into Bobby’s bar.”

“I wish I’d shot him,” Tim says. Then he remembers the way Bobby had gone white and frozen while his curtains burned the other night. “If he’s the one set the fire here on Tuesday night, I _will_ shoot him.”

“Please don’t shoot nobody,” Bobby says softly. 

Tim turns to him in surprise. He can’t believe he was so caught up in feeling feelings over Raylan’s story that he didn’t notice the bedroom door open.

Raylan stands up. “You okay?”

Bobby nods jerkily, gives Raylan an unconvincing, lopsided smile. “Just peachy, Raylan Givens. You know you never gotta worry about me.”

“Hm,” says Raylan. “I’m gonna head into the office and give Major’s probation officer a call, find out how long he’s been back here and why the hell you weren’t told he was coming.”

“Thanks.” Bobby twitches, doing that thing where he hugs himself again. Tim doesn’t touch people, if he can help it, but he’s seen Raylan give big, sweeping man-hugs. He wishes he could make Raylan give Bobby one of those, right now.

Raylan doesn’t, meaning Tim needs to work on his telepathy, and instead excuses himself with a nod to them both, already pulling out his cellphone.

Left alone, Tim and Bobby look at each other. Tim is on the brink of asking if Bobby would maybe like a hug from him. If he does ask, he has no idea what he’ll want the answer to be.

“Sorry,” Bobby says, stopping Tim in his tracks. Thank god.

“Hm?” Tim asks. “What did you do?”

“Freak out?” Bobby waves a hand, apparently meant to convey his own panic.

Tim shakes his head. “That ain’t a problem. Got some people in my own past I wouldn’t want to bump into.”

“Yeah?” Bobby asks, smiling shyly, which has got to be an act, since Tim know he isn’t really shy. 

Sadly, Tim is finding himself charmed by every iteration of Raylan’s friend Bobby. “Wanna get out of here?” Tim hears someone say. It should be Bobby, but it turns out that it’s Tim. 

“Where?” Bobby asks, dragging it out slowly like he suspects a trick.

“Movie theatre?” Tim suggests. “It’s early. We’ll be back before the bar closes, if you’re worried about leaving it unguarded.”

“I…” Tim thinks for a second that Bobby’s going to turn him down. Then, “Yeah, sure, why the hell not,” Bobby says. 

“Cool,” says Tim. “I’ll drive.”

“What a gentleman,” Bobby laughs and makes a fair attempt at one of his usual flirty grins. Tim tries not to look too happy about it.

***

They argue cheerfully over what movie to watch.

Bobby keeps trying for some action movie and Tim’s on the brink of having to explain that one too many explosion might send him straight back to Afghanistan, when he realises that Bobby’s only teasing.

“Asshole,” Tim growls and drags him into the screening of an adaptation of a fantasy YA novel.

Afterwards, Bobby won’t stop giggling.

“ _What_?” Tim finally demands, once he’s backed out of his space in the lot and is winding their way toward the exit.

“That was amazing,” Bobby says, grinning at him across the shift stick. “Like, terrible, obviously, but amazing. I hope they make a sequel.”

“There are six books in the series,” Tim says, without thinking.

Bobby’s eyes widen and he twists in his seat toward Tim. “Have you read them all? Please say yes.”

“Maybe.” Tim shrugs. He doesn’t care if people know what he likes to read. He doesn’t care overmuch what anyone thinks about him. Except maybe he cares a little about what Bobby thinks.

Bobby doesn’t press but he does keep watching Tim, eyes sparkling, no trace of the fear from earlier.

It’s that more than anything that makes Tim say, “I’ve read the whole series twice. The last book’s the best one and I’ve read it four times.”

“You are a fucking wonder, Deputy Tim Gutterson,” Bobby says happily and flops back into his seat.

He starts to tense up the closer they get to the bar though, so much so that Tim stops at a stop light and doesn’t start up again when it turns to go.

“Someone’s gonna honk you,” Bobby warns.

Tim glances in the rearview mirror. There’s no one behind them. “You okay?” he asks.

“Sure.” Bobby drums his hands on his thighs. “Sure. Sure. I’m great.”

“All right,” says Tim, unconvinced. He reaches for the handbrake slowly, giving Bobby plenty of time to object.

“Could we go somewhere else?” Bobby asks quickly. “Could we go to your place?” He makes a face at himself. “Sorry, that’s rude. I forgot we ain’t friends.”

“We could be friends,” Tim offers. “And sure we can go to my place. It ain’t much though, I’m warning you now.”

“As long as it’s somewhere Jason Major don’t know about, I don’t give a shit.”

So they go to Tim’s house. It’s a brick ranch house with a fenced in yard and a couple trees out back. It’s exactly the kind of place Tim wanted, growing up in a condo with his parents and sister, all of them squashed together and hating each other. 

“This is nice,” Bobby says after they’ve parked up. He waits for Tim to unlock the door, then takes himself on a tour, smiling at all the faded nineties decor that Tim will get around to changing one day.

Tim leaves him to it and goes to the refrigerator. After he’s pulled out a reused takeout container filled with chunks of meat, he opens the back door and whistles real softly.

It’s not that he doesn’t want Bobby to see him, it would just be easier if he could get this done by himself.

There’s a rustle from the bushes at the back of the yard, where there’s a hole in the fence that Tim hasn’t mended yet. A big, golden head appears, followed by a rangy, underfed body, and the stray dog that roams his street lopes across the yard to say hello.

“Hey, girl,” Tim says, reaching out to scratch behind her ears. She can’t have been a stray long, because she always accepts affection without a fuss.

She gives him a low whine from the back of her throat, exploring his hands and pockets with her nose until he relents and throws down the meat for her.

He should leave her to it, if he doesn’t want to get caught out here, but he doesn’t, just sits and watches her eat and feels content.

“This is kind of a big place for one lone Deputy, ain’t it?” Bobby asks, stepping out into the yard to join him. “Three bedrooms all to yourself? Or… oh my god, hey girl.”

He drops down onto his knees near the dog, close enough to say hey but not so close that he crowds her. 

“She gets a little snappy when she’s eating,” Tim warns.

“Well, I would too, skinny as that,” Bobby coos. “She yours?”

“No,” Tim scoffs. “Couldn’t keep a plant alive let alone a dog. She’s just a stray.”

Bobby hums sadly. “Poor angel,” he says. “She’s gorgeous. What’s her name?”

“I told you, she’s not mine.”

“Sure, but you’ve named her, right?”

Tim holds out for another couple seconds then sighs. “I call her Bess, but that’s only because calling her ‘hey you,’ just seemed rude.”

“Right, because you’re a rough and tough army man and naming a stray dog ain’t something that you’d do.” Bobby throws him another of those teasing looks, and Tim tries to stay deadpan, but clearly fails, because Bobby frowns. “Oh, hey, I was only joking. What did I say?”

“I ain’t a tough army man,” Tim says, even though he knows he should just say _nothing_ and laugh it off. “I’m… not that.”

“I know.” Bobby shifts away from Bess so he can put a warm hand on Tim’s arm. “Hey, I do know that. You’re a sweetheart.”

Tim makes a disbelieving noise. “Definitely not that, either.”

“Tim Gutterson,” Bobby says, firmly. “You’ve given up every night this week to make sure I’m safe even though you don’t know me from Adam. You took me to a movie and you’ve brought me to your home, because I got scared. You feed a stray dog so often that she lets you pet her. You, my friend, are sweet as apple pie.”

“Fuck off,” says Tim, but he’s laughing.

***

Raylan calls the next morning with instructions to meet him in Harlan and to bring Bobby.

“Well, if we got our orders,” Bobby says with a shrug.

“Pretty sure I got a day job,” Tim grouches, but gets in the car, anyway.

Just outside of Lexington, Bobby turns on the radio and spends some time retuning it until some kind of twangy music bursts out, a deep-throated girl swearing murder on a man who’s done her wrong.

“Fucking hate country music,” Tim mumbles, not sure if he wants to be heard.

“Course you do, sugar,” Bobby says, for some reason sounding fond, but he retunes the radio until he finds some old school rock, instead.

Tim keeps his eyes on the road. “You didn’t need to change it.”

Bobby kicks his long legs up onto the dash. “We got a three hour drive; I ain’t gonna make you listen to shit you hate all the way.”

“Hm,” says Tim, when what he means is _thank you_.

Bobby tips his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes. Tim would think he’s fallen asleep, except that he sings along to the radio for the next few miles down the I-75. When he does finally fall quiet, his breath evening out, Tim leaves the radio on, used to it by now.

He wishes he knew how Bobby could be comfortable enough to just fall asleep like this, when Tim himself struggles to fall asleep in his own bed at night.

Just outside of Harlan, Bobby rouses with a soft sound, and blinks around. “Oh, hey, home,” he says, slightly slurred from sleep. Tim refuses to let himself think about how Bobby might sound similar, when he wakes up in the morning.

“You grow up here?” Tim asks him, having to concentrate to navigate the bouncing dirt roads, which he’s growing used to by now, but still doesn’t like.

“From when I was ten or so,” Bobby says. “My mama left my daddy and brought me back here, where her family was. After she died, my uncle and his family raised me.”

“And that’s where you met Raylan? Must have made for an exciting childhood.”

Bobby laughs. “Tell you a secret?” When Tim nods, he laughs again. “Raylan Givens was my very first crush. You have no idea how attractive a man like that can be to a confused teenager. Fair got my thirteen-year-old heart a-pumping.”

Considering Tim finds his own heart - and other parts - pumping when Raylan bends or smiles in a certain way, he decides it’s best not to comment on that part.

“He know?”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Bobby says, fondly. “I grew like six inches over that summer and fell over my own feet every single time I saw him. Nate thought it was the funniest thing in his whole world.”

They’ve turned into a quiet, pretty little neighbourhood by now, not the kind of place they usually go when Raylan demands Tim’s presence in Harlan. It’s hard to feel as on-edge as Tim usually feels when he’s down here, except that Bobby is apparently managing it.

He drops his feet from the dash and leans forward, squinting out the window. “You sure this is where Raylan wants us?”

Tim glances at his satnav, just to be sure, but he knows he’s in the right place. “Yeah? This is the address he gave me. Spring Drive? You know it?”

Bobby nods. “Nate’s parents moved here, after... what happened.” He points forward to a sprawling, two-storey house that’s nestled just under the tree line. “That’s their place.”

Tim checks the satnav one last time. “And that’s where we’re heading.”

“Shit,” Bobby says and pulls the passenger-side mirror down to try to tame his hair in the reflection.

Raylan steps out to meet them while Tim’s parking up. Tim shoots him an unimpressed glare for not telling him exactly where they were going, but it seems to bounce straight off of Raylan’s hat.

“Thanks for coming down,” he says, like they’ve stopped by for tea. “Come on in.”

“Raylan,” Bobby protests. “I usually bring flowers.” But he hurries to follow Raylan into the house, same as Tim.

Mr and Mrs Fischer seem like a very normal sort of couple. They’re middle-aged, more than a little care-worn, but they smile at their uninvited guests, greet Bobby like long-lost kin, and offer around coffee and home-made cookies.

They have a gangly, late-teenage son, who skulks in the background, looking unimpressed, but Tim was a skulker when he was that age, up until he joined the army, so he doesn’t hold if against him.

“What is that we can do for y’all?” asks Mr Fischer. He’s speaking to the room at large, but neither he nor Mrs Fischer can keep their eyes off Bobby for more than a few seconds. 

Tim can’t imagine how it must feel to look at a guy who was their son’s age and who’s now grown into a man, when their Nate never got to.

“I don’t rightly know,” Bobby admits, raising his eyebrows at Raylan. “It’s long past due time I paid you a visit though, so I’m real glad to be here.”

“Aw, Bobby-Joe, you write and you call; what more can we ask?” says Mrs Fischer, her tone really gentle. “Will you have time to stay for your dinner? I’d love to catch up.”

“Sure,” Bobby says, “I’d like that.” He looks at Tim, who shrugs. As long as Art won’t fire him, he doesn’t mind how long he has to wait to drive Bobby home.

“Sir,” says Raylan. “Ma’am. We’re here about Jason Major.” 

That ruins the tone of the conversation all at once. The Fischers glance at each other, and even the kid - Nelson - straightens up a little from his slouch in the doorway.

“What about him?” asks Mr Fischer harshly. “What’s he done now?”

“Maybe nothing,” Bobby soothes. “I saw him yesterday, that’s all.”

Raylan interrupts before the Fischers can react. “Not quite all. I thought it was odd that no one had let Bobby know, if Major was gonna be in Lexington, so I put in a call to his probation officer.” His expression turns sorry. “Firstly, Bobby, it’s real shit, but your contact details weren’t even in the file that she had. Seems they hadn’t recorded you as someone who might want to know about one of Nate’s killers walking the streets.”

Bobby flinches, but he doesn’t say anything. Tim’s sitting right next to him, but he still doesn’t feel close enough to be able to offer any comfort, not even a nudge to the knee, not in front of all these people.

“You were though.” Raylan turns to the Fischers. “Seems she spoke to you, Mr Fischer, a week or so ago, and you weren’t best pleased to hear Major was back in the state.”

Mr Fischer frowns, shaking his head. “I never got that call,” he says. He looks first at his wife and then at Bobby. “I would have told you both.”

“Seems,” Raylan presses on. “That you told her Major was a murdering son of a bitch - direct quote, excuse me language, ma’am - and that someone ought to teach him a lesson.”

Mr Fischer just keeps on shaking his head. “I would never use those words, and I don’t believe in vigilante punishment. Just what exactly are you saying, Deputy?”

Raylan scratches the back of his neck. It’s his _I’m not entirely sure, except I am entirely sure_ move. “Someone smashed up Bobby’s windows, probably just setting the groundwork, then they set fire to his bar using kerosene and scraps of rags, the exact same way your nephew’s motorhome was torched.”

“Oh my god.” Mrs Fischer presses both hands to her mouth. “Bobby, sweetheart, are you all right? Your beautiful bar?”

“ _Nathanial’s_ and I are fine, Mama Fischer,” Bobby promises. His accent is thickening by the second, the longer they stay here, the same way Raylan’s does.

“Then,” Raylan says, speaking over them both, but gently so no one will take offence, “Major rocked up at the bar last night. Probation took him in to find out what the heck he thought he was doing, and he swears blind that he didn’t know it was Bobby’s bar. He also swears that a girl hit him up on Tinder and suggested that they meet there.”

“But we don’t believe that, right?” Tim asks.

Raylan nods slowly. “Normally, we would not believe that. Except that I have seen his Tinder screen myself, and there definitely is a girl and she definitely is very insistent that _Nathanial’s_ is the only place she’s willing to meet him.”

“So what are you saying?” Bobby asks softly.

“I’m saying that I think someone is setting up Jason Major to make it look like he’s targeting you in the hope of putting him back in jail. Which, to be fair, ain’t a terrible idea, except that it’s putting you at risk at the same time.”

“And except that it’s illegal,” Tim adds. Not that he’s too bothered by that, but he knows that he should be. He and Raylan take it in unspoken turns to make sure that the Lexington Marshal's Office isn’t implicated in breaking any really big laws. He knows that Art appreciates it.

Mr Fischer climbs to his feet. He’s a big man, and it’s clearly difficult for him to move quickly. “You think I did that, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t blame you,” Raylan promises him. “I’d need to ask you to stop, but I’d understand the impulse. That man helped to kill your son, of course it would sting to know he was walking about free.”

Mrs Fischer looks like she’s never going to stop clutching her face and Bobby looks as if he’s been sucker punched.

Tim, however, is watching Fischer Junior. Nelson Fischer has a look on his face that Tim has seen many a time before; the expression of a man who has suddenly found the world is too heavy to carry, and is about to run away from it all.

“Raylan,” Tim says very softly and stands up. He crosses the room, before Nelson can decide what to do, and puts a gentle, firm hand on his shoulder. “Now, now, kid. Why don’t you come inside and sit down.”

“Nelson?” asks Mrs Fischer, sounding lost.

Nelson lets himself be led into the living room and doesn’t resist when Tim nudges him to sit down in the one empty armchair.

“How old were you were Nate was killed?” Tim asks, kneeling down in front of Nelson, meeting his eye and cutting off his escape route at the same time.

“Fourteen,” Nelson says. He sounds lost too, just like his mama. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips.

“Must have been hard.”

Nelson doesn’t react to that. Raylan does, obviously picking up on what Tim suspects.

“It was, wasn’t it Nelson?” Raylan says. “I remember you screaming at the funeral that it was all Bobby’s fault and he should have died instead of Nate.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Nelson says, looking down at his knees. 

“He was a child,” Mrs Fischer protests.

“Mmhmm, but he’s not now.” Tim glances back over his shoulder at Bobby, who is watching them with a fixed, stricken expression on his face.

Bobby shakes his head, but even if he’s asking Tim to stop, Tim can’t yet.

“What happened, Nelson?” he asks gently. “Did you take the call from Jason’s prison officer? It must have been one hell of a shock.”

“He should rot in jail,” Nelson whispers. “He killed my brother and my cousin.”

“So you decided that he should pay? And you decided that the best way to do that was to go to Lexington and smash up Bobby’s windows?”

“He wasn’t in Lexington, he was in Richmond with his girlfriend,” Mrs Fischer protested. “Weren’t you, honey?”

Nelson still isn’t looking at anyone. “I thought Bobby would have gotten a call too, and that he’d think it was Jason straight away. But nothing happened and I could see Jason just walking around, free as anything, but I had to do a little more. I wouldn’t have let the fire go upstairs. I wouldn’t have let anyone get hurt.”

“And when that didn’t work, you decided to catfish Jason? Get the ball moving a little? What were you going to do next?”

Nelson shakes his head. “I don’t _know_. I had to come home for work, but I thought I’d go back next weekend and think of something in the meantime.”

“You spray painted ‘burn in hell’ on my front door,” Bobby says, sounding sick. “How d’you think Nate would have felt about that?”

“I didn’t _mean_ it!” Nelson looks up to glare at him, but it’s a tearful sort of glare, not an angry one. “I just… I just… I had to do something.” He curls forward, head in his hands.

Tim moves backwards, out of the way, and after a second, so does Raylan. Both of Nelson’s parents take their place, wrapping their arms around him and scolding him while he cries.

Tim turns away and finally, finally works up the courage to put his hand on Bobby’s shoulder. Bobby leans into him with a grateful sigh. 

“All right?” Tim murmurs softly.

Bobby shakes his head. “At least it’s over,” he says and closes his eyes.

***

Hours later, Tim drops Bobby off at the bar back in Lexington. It feels weird as hell not to be getting out of the car with him. Tim’s not really sure what he’s going to do with his evenings now that he won’t need to help Bobby cook or watch him shine amongst his customers.

“Thanks,” Bobby murmurs, the first thing he’s said in miles. “Thanks for working it out.”

Tim shrugs. “Raylan did most of the legwork.”

“Poor Nelson,” Bobby says. “Fuck. He worshipped Nate; I should have spent more time with him, after, rather than just running away.”

“Hey, no, none of this is your fault.” It’s impossible to touch Bobby again; the dark of the evening would make anything too intimate. “He’s old enough to make his choices. Sure you don’t want to press charges?”

“No way in hell.” Bobby’s head snaps up. “You can’t take him in. You promised. The Fischers can’t lose another son.”

“Woah, hey.” Tim holds up both hands. “I’m not going to do anything. I told you, this isn’t my jurisdiction.”

Bobby’s nods shakily. “Yeah, sorry, I know. Sorry. I’m all.” He holds up a hand and wobbles it through the air.

“Understandable.”

They look at each through the dark. Tim wants Bobby to invite him in, but he doesn’t know what he wants to happen after that. Well, he does, but he doesn’t know what he would let happen after that.

“Good night,” Bobby says eventually. “Thank you for everything.”

Right. Well that’s then.

“Will you, you’ll come by for a drink soon, right?” Bobby carries on uncertainly. “I reckon I owe you a good few.”

“Sure, I will,” says Tim, suddenly realising that he’ll need to find somewhere else to pick up guys from now on. Even if Bobby didn’t know Raylan, Tim doesn’t think he could do it with Bobby watching.

Bobby nods at him and climbs out of the car. There’s a moment where he pauses with his hand on the door handle and Tim’s sure he’s going to say something else. But then Bobby nods again, steps away, and disappears into the night.

Tim waits until he can see the flash of light from the bar door opening and then closing then lays his head softly on the steering wheel.

“Thank god that’s over,” he says to himself, but he doesn’t believe it.

***

“Okay,” Rachel says, some time the next afternoon. “What is up with you today?”

Tim looks up from his computer, where he’s been diligently typing up reports for most of the day. “Nothing?” 

She slides her chair over to him and leans back in it, folding her arms. “You haven’t said more than two words today, and both of those were irritable.” 

“Because I’m usually real chatty?” Tim asks then counts how many words that was. He holds up five fingers to make his point.

The problem with Rachel is that she’s pretty much entirely unruffleable. It’ll be a good trait when she eventually takes over from Art, but it’s annoying when she’s just his coworker… Or, okay, when she’s his friend. It’s really annoying when she’s his friend.

“Something happen yesterday, while you and Raylan were off doing whatever the hell it was you were doing?”

Tim could lie and say yes. Something always happens when one or other of them is out with Raylan, so she’d definitely believe him. Instead, he decides he might as well ask a question that’s been bugging him all day.

He looks around, but they’re the only two within hearing distance. Raylan is in Art’s office, either having a whiskey or getting reamed out for something or maybe both.

“If you’d met someone who you think you could maybe kinda like, do you think it’d be worth pursuing that or just letting it go?”

Rachel looks surprised for point five of a second, which is fair. Tim is hella surprised at himself for actually asking that too. “Why would you want to let it go?” she asks. “Unless you know for sure that they don’t like you back?”

“I don’t know that for sure,” Tim admits. “They’re… hot. They’ve probably got their pick of guys.”

“But they’re not dating anyone at the moment?” Rachel pushes. 

Tim shakes his head. 

Rachel slides her chair one inch closer so she can smack him on the arm. “Then you should go and ask them out, Tim. What the hell?”

Tim knew she was going to say that. He also knows that she’s only saying ‘they’ because he is, and he really appreciates that even though it makes him feel like a coward for not say ‘he’. It’s not like she hasn’t guessed.

“Maybe,” he says slowly. “I’ll think about it.”

Rachel starts to smile, slow and a little evilly. “If this works out, I’m going to want details. You know that, right?”

Tim wouldn’t have expected anything less. It’s kind of nice, in a slightly overwhelming way. “Fine,” says Tim. He takes a deep breath, can’t make himself say anymore, takes another deep breath, finally finds his voice. “If he says yes, I’ll tell you _some_ details.”

Rachel absolutely lights up. 

It makes him feel like the bravest man in the world.

***

Tim drives home that evening, trying to make a plan for when he might next swing by _Nathanial’s_ to take Bobby up on that offer of a drink. He isn’t going to ask him out straight away or anything, but he might as well lay a little ground work.

Instead, all his plans are scuppered, when he walks up to his front door and finds a fluttering piece of paper pinned to it.

_Gone for a beer. Come find me. Woof. - Bess_

Tim can’t help himself; he laughs out loud. Then he turns around and gets straight back in his car.

***

“Did you steal my dog?” he asks, striding into _Nathanial’s_ and catching Bobby standing behind the bar.

Bobby looks good today. He’s wearing a dark blue shirt that brings out his eyes, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows to show off his firm forearms, and he’s done something with his hair that makes the dark curls bounce.

He grins at Tim. “I thought she wasn’t yours?”

“Well,” says Tim, at a loss. 

Bobby reaches across the bar and touches Tim very lightly on the sleeve of his jacket. “She’s back here. Come have a beer with her?”

“And you?” Tim asks, his mouth running away from him.

Bobby smiles. “And me.”

Tim feels different, following Bobby up to his apartment. He’s done it a dozen times before, but this time, he’s here for himself rather than for any official reason. 

The first thing he sees when they reach Bobby’s apartment, is Bess, who is curled up on a blanket at the foot of the sofa.

“Huh,” says Bobby. “I was pretty sure she’d jump up onto the sofa the second I left her alone.”

Bess looks up at the sound of his voice, ears flicking questioningly. 

“Nah, she’s a good girl.” Tim goes over to sit on the sofa nearest to her, partly so he can scratch between her ears and partly so he has something to do that isn’t stare at Bobby’s forearms. “You know she’s never going to want to leave.”

“She will, if she’s with you,” Bobby says. “I promise I’m not really stealing your dog.”

“She’s not mine,” Tim says and lets her lick his fingers.

“Uh huh. Beer?”

“You got anything stronger?” Tim finally looks up and finds Bobby watching him, a soft smile lurking in the corner of his mouth.

“Sure do.” Bobby disappears downstairs for a minute then comes back with two whiskey glasses and a bottle of top shelf bourbon. “This okay?”

“You don’t gotta waste that on me,” Tim protests but Bobby ignores him and pours them both a glass.

He sits down next to Tim, closer than is maybe casual, and tucks his feet up underneath him so that his knee brushes the side of Tim’s thigh. From anyone else, Tim would think he’s being hit on, but he’s not just going to assume that here, not when it’s this important.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “That shit with Nate’s brother must have been hard.”

Bobby downs his whiskey and pours himself another, which he sips much slower. “It was shit,” he says. “But I feel better now I know no one’s really out to get me. I’m gonna go home to visit the Fischers more; I think it’ll help us all.”

“You’re amazing,” Tim says, then wishes he hadn’t, because it makes Bobby’s focused attention switch to him.

“I am?” Bobby says softly. “No, don’t tell me why; let me tell you something instead?”

“Okay,” Tim agrees. He pours himself another whiskey in case whatever Bobby wants to say is something he doesn’t want to hear. Bess nudges her head against his ankle reassuringly.

“I said that I thought I recognised you from coming into the bar,” Bobby says, “but that was kind of a lie.”

“Okay,” Tim says again.

“I mean, _that_ part wasn’t a lie, I definitely recognised you. You come in every third or fourth Thursday night, you have a beer and two whiskeys, and then you take home a man who looks big enough to hold you down but kind enough that he probably won’t.”

Tim is frozen, glass against his lips. He can’t breathe. 

“I wasn’t trying to trick you.” Bobby turns all the way to face him and leans his shoulder against the back of the sofa. “I thought you might wanna come out to me yourself, that’s all.”

“I was going to,” Tim forces himself to say. “I just… don’t do that.”

“Why?” It’s soft not accusing but Tim still feels flustered.

He shakes his head. “I went from my parents’ house to the army to the Marshal’s service. You don’t open up about yourself in any of those places.”

Bobby looks really sad, sadder than Tim really thinks that deserves. “You’re not out anywhere?”

“My friend Rachel knows, and I’m pretty sure my boss has guessed. My daddy suspected, but he wasn’t like he needed an excuse to hate me.”

Bobby curls a hand around Tim’s wrist and squeezes gently. “Is it okay that I know? I could pretend not to, if you want. I don’t wanna scare you.”

Tim doesn’t mean to laugh, but he can’t help it. “I don’t want that, that’s not…” He turns his arm over under Bobby’s hand, pulls away gently. Then he takes a breath and puts his hand - or just one finger, really - on the back of Bobby’s. “That’s not what I want from you.”

Bobby is looking down at their joined hands. “Tim?” he asks, glancing back up through his fan of dark eyelashes.

Tim swallows. “I’m not good at this.”

Bobby tilts his hand so that he can lace their fingers together. It’s intimate. Tim’s not used to intimacies that don’t involve someone’s dick. “Good at what?”

Tim doesn’t know the word for it so he falls back on one of the ones they use in the sort of books he likes to read. “Seduction.” He winces.

Bobby doesn’t laugh. Or rather, he does, but it’s not mocking; it’s just breathless and surprised and fond. “I, um. I don’t know about that. I’ve been pretty well seduced since the first time you didn’t kiss me.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Tim says with a frown. “When didn’t I kiss you?”

Bobby strokes the edge of his thumb over the back of Tim’s hand. His fingernail is slightly ragged and the scratch of it makes Tim’s breath catch. “I thought you might after the fire,” he says. “And then again, when you took me to the movies. I was sure you would, when you drove me home last night.”

Tim wouldn’t have kissed him after the fire; there was so much adrenaline then that they might have gone straight to bed and one frantic fuck isn’t what he’s looking for here. He feels like an idiot that he missed the other opportunities, though.

“What if I…” He stumbles on the words. “Now?”

“What if you now,” Bobby agrees and leans forward to kiss him.

His lips touch Tim’s just lightly, and cling warmly for a second. Tim pushes forward to meet him, before Bobby can pull away.

It’s slow and sweet, nothing like the kind of wet, frantic, biting kisses that he gives and gets in the men’s room downstairs.

“Yeah?” Bobby asks, pulling back just far enough to raise his eyebrows and smile.

Tim takes a breath, breathes in and breathes out. Tells himself that for once in his life he can have something nice without overthinking it. “Yeah,” he says and lets go.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are love <3


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